After he was done, he leaned against the cold metal wall to take a breather.
The men's bodies lay beside him, twisted and bloodied, their breaths shallow and uneven.
They were still alive—for now—but death was close, waiting to claim them.
If they somehow survived what he did to them, they would be candidates for a zombie movie.
"Anyone else want to kill me?" His eyes landed on the remaining prisoners.
He might be dealing with women, but that didn't mean he was safe. One of them could still try to stab him in the back.
Sometimes, they were even more unpredictable than men, driven more by emotion than logic.
They huddled together in a corner, eyes wide, terrified they might be next.
"Don't worry, I won't hurt you as long as you don't do anything stupid," he warned.
"We won't... Please, we don't even know those men," a woman in her thirties forced herself to speak.
She wore a black T-shirt that hugged her chest and denim shorts. Her long legs were a canvas, tattoos of roses and crosses weaving together like a dark, intricate garden etched in ink.
A nose piercing glinted in the light, oddly complementing her short black hair, which faded into vibrant purple at the tips.
If not for his current situation, he might've thought she was one of those hot crazy chicks who would commit a crime, and then men everywhere would say, "I can fix her."
"So, why are we all here? Any guesses?" he asked, steering the conversation toward something that could help him connect with them on a deeper level.
It wasn't that he intended to woo them—he still had his standards.
Rather, he wanted to show them what he was capable of, so they'd be less inclined to try anything against him.
And right now, the only common ground they shared was the fact that their lives were in the hands of their abductors.
They hesitated, their fear evident, so he began weaving lies.
"Don't worry. If you tell me what you know, I can help. You saw what I did, right? I'm well-trained to handle this kind of thing. "
They glanced at the soon-to-be-dead men sprawled on the cold metal flooring. His words suddenly became far more credible.
The woman with black and purple hair stepped forward, nervously scratching at her arms and legs.
She was showing signs of drug withdrawal, and it wasn't looking good.
"They're a syndicate called Black Venom," she admitted, her voice shaky. "I know because... I buy my drugs from them."
"Black Venom?" he repeated.
The name didn't ring any bells. He narrowed his eyes, studying her.
"And what drugs are we talking about?"
"It's a drug called Dark Cross," she responded, her voice rising to a higher pitch than usual. Just mentioning the name made her crave it.
Zayn raised his eyebrows. Back in his vigilante days, he made it a point to familiarize himself with the names of drugs.
He extensively researched them—their side effects, the usual telltale signs, and how they destroyed lives.
This one, however, was new to him, so it must've been released after he moved on from his dark past.
"And how exactly did you end up here?"
"I…" She hesitated, glancing at the other women before continuing.
"I'm a prostitute who also sideline as drug dealers. But things went wrong—I got addicted to the stuff myself and ended up drowning in debt."
His expression hardened—not because she sold her body; that, at least, was acceptable.
What bothered him was the illegal substance she sold, the kind that destroy lives.
Still, he forced himself to calm down. Scolding her wouldn't solve anything.
He needed to adapt—especially since it was likely he would be stuck in this container with them for an extended period.
While lost in thought, he felt a sudden vibration beneath his feet.
A loud clang echoed from the ceiling, followed by the rattling of chains.
Moments later, the entire container lurched, the unmistakable sensation of being lifted taking hold.
'Shit, they're loading us onto a ship,'
"Do you have any idea where they're taking us?" he asked again.
She worked for the syndicate—surely, she must have heard some rumors.
She hesitated, looking unsure.
After a moment, she gave in, realizing what might happen to her if she refused to cooperate.
"I think they're taking us to some island in the Pacific Ocean," she answered softly.
"Pacific Ocean? That's a long way," he frowned.
He glanced around, his eyes scanning the container for anything useful.
As he walked by, he realized something was off. He was sure this container was supposed to be longer.
"Could it be?" he raised his hand and knock on walls, and it he felt some vibration bouncing back.
"Help me move this thing!" he commanded.
The women looked at each other, still hesitant about what to do.
"Hurry up!" he yelled, forcing them to move.
With all their effort, they managed to tip it forward, then pulled it back, revealing a hidden compartment where ten crates of various sizes were stacked on top of each other.
'Jackpot,' he clenched his fist. This was the answer to how they would survive this place.
The women jumped in joy, but he stopped them from getting any closer.
"This is our supply. We need to be smarter about this. We don't know how long we'll be trapped here, and since I'm the only man here, I'll be the leader."
One of them raised an eyebrow, not thrilled by the idea, while the others exchanged uneasy glances.
"Aren't you being too unfair just because you're a man?"
His eyes narrowed for a moment, but he managed to calm himself down at the last second.
"Oh, I apologize for that. I forgot this is the twenty-first century, and we should push for gender equality, right?"
He flashed a warm smile, and the women nodded in agreement, feeling a bit more at ease, thinking he wasn't as bad as they initially thought.
"How about this? Let's base everything on our capabilities. Anyone here think they're stronger than me?"
He raised his metal rod, keeping the smile on his face, and they instinctively backed away.
"You're right... You should take the lead," they gave up right away.
"Good," he nodded, satisfied that they were smart enough to understand he was doing all of this to increase their chances.
Without proper leadership, the supply would be consumed way faster, putting them in a dangerous situation.
He cleared his throat, ready to say one more thing to solidify his position.
"Trust me. I went through military training. If you want to survive, you need to follow me, and I'll make sure we get through this."
For the first time, they felt a spark of safety.
He knew exactly what to say and when, making sure they felt a false sense of security, all the while positioning himself as their only way out.
Little did they know, he had already planned this out carefully.
His methods might not be pretty, but survival wasn't about being nice—it was about being smart.